


Vultures

by Synchron



Series: All Things Evette [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Credo Lives AU, First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27190345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: When Nero and Credo set out to investigate a (likely demonic) disturbance on the outskirts of Fortuna, what Credo finds hiding away in one of the abandoned houses is decidedly worse than anything that could ever slip through a hellgate. A horde of demons would have been preferable.Vultures, honestly, the lot of them.
Relationships: Credo (Devil May Cry)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: All Things Evette [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984855
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Vultures

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece I wrote back in May that I'm finally cross-posting here for archival purposes. Like what I did for Thunderclap, this is a very rough introductory piece for another OC of mine, a photojournalist named Evette Lafrenz who stows away in Fortuna in the hopes of glimpsing the "Guardian Angel" that's been rumoured to protect the city. It's a very self indulgent OC, I'm ngl, just because I wan to give Credo a bit of happiness (and mild grief, because Evette is basically a nasty goblin creature who doesn't look after herself 🤣)
> 
> This is probably the most niche of projects I have under my belt, but thank you so much if you're here taking a gander. I hope you like it! 💖🙏

In a city like Fortuna, word travels fast. Beyond their protocols put in place to spread news of demons encroaching on the borders between a salvaged city and its desolate husk, prevention lies heavily in acting on the early signs.

Inhuman tracks.

Claw marks.

General destruction.

Foraging and pillaging.

The last two are rarer, but it isn’t unheard of from demonkind; usually a lesser species who’re testing the waters, scouting, inspecting and pushing boundaries before returning in larger numbers. So when Nero received a call about a movement in a resident’s garden overnight, he promised he’d look into it.

That night, he and Credo went out into the darkness, splitting the area between them; Nero scoured the streets on foot, where Credo took to the skies and followed the wind, looking for moving shadows in the pitch black destitution of abandoned homes and empty stores. They listened for the scuttling of feet, the sound of claws scraping on loose concrete and masonry, the telltale hisses of rudimentary communication. Credo sometimes thinks he sees a flash from below, a gleam of white light in the darkness, but by the time he tucks his wing back and swoops in for a closer look, hovering just above the spot he swears it had come from, the only thing that greets him is silence. But he is far more patient than what sits in the darkness, and eventually, he hears a crunch of rubble underfoot - the sound of something shifting their weight from fatigue. He drops to the floor, folds his wing behind him and steps closer to the sound, treading far more lightly than a creature of his size would imply. His own claws click on the ground underneath him, flexing on each step and producing a foreboding, hollow tap that echoes off cold stone; his own threat display.

He thinks, no… he _knows_ he panicked the hidden being, because there was suddenly another bright flash of white, so glaring in the darkness that Credo physically recoiled from it, before it moved, scuttling away into half crumbled debris far too cramped, and far too unstable for him to squeeze into. By the time his eyes readjusted to the darkness, the wind whistling through jagged debris was all that he could hear. Upon the mental map he’d drawn in his mind, grid-based, just like his father had taught him many years ago, Credo marks this spot with an X.

The following week, Nero received another call, this time about stolen apples and berries plucked by the _branchful_ right off a private bush, and once again, he and Credo set out after dusk.

He returns to the same spot from last week first, letting the cold ocean breeze filter through his wing as his eyes scan the area below him. He divides this square into an even smaller grid in his head, his eyes scanning the area from A-1 all the way to A-6 before he starts again in row B. He gets to C-3 before he notices something peculiar; a soft glow of light that seeps through the cracks of an abandoned building. It wavers and flickers in a familiar, yet natural pattern - candlelight - and Credo tilts his head, regarding the glow with grim suspicion; demons have no need for artificial light.

The threat that’s been hounding the city is human.

Wonderful.

In a flurry of loosened feathers, he drops to the floor in front of the building in question, now noticing an assortment of sound traps(?) that litter the front yard of this abandoned cottage. The string of empty cans rattle and ring their hollow song from the force of his descent, but there’s no movement from within the humble home, no indication of retaliation or aggression, and Credo has to wonder if that’s a good thing, because settling right on top of the salty ocean air is the smoky aroma of gunpowder, and the coppery tang of spilled blood. Oh yes, he’d recognise that sour, acrid smell anywhere. But what’s concerning is that the smoke on the wind is fresh, and the home before him is completely silent - two bad omens alone, but together, spin a tale of something worse.

Half of the cottage is caved in, the windows long broken, but now covered and sealed off with what Credo can only imagine is tarp, and from inside, from within an imperfect and hasty seal, comes that soft orange light again. He closes his eyes, shifts back into his more assuring human form, and, with his Durandal unsheathed and in hand, he ducks underneath the gentle sway of empty cans and looks for an ingress point, pausing every few seconds to listen for movement from within; just because he can’t hear anything inside doesn’t mean they can’t hear _him_ , and he’d rather be safe than sorry. The front door is barricaded, proven by the slight give when he tries to open it. The planks of wood that hold the door in place creak under the pressure, but otherwise hold remarkably well - a sign that they were put in place recently as opposed to when the chaos befell the city three years ago. Regardless, he won’t be getting in that way.

It isn’t until he comes to the back of the cottage, where tracks in the dirt circle restlessly before leading towards the tattered plastic flaps from another window, that the dread builds, painting a better picture of what may have occurred. Judging by the size of the tracks, the three pointed toes, the heavier indents around the balls of the feet, Credo presumes an Assault, an utter non-threat to someone of his calibre, but to a resident? To someone who feels the need to hide away from the safety of the city? What chance would they have? He holds down a portion of the plastic, shredded by tooth and claw, and leans into the home, listening, observing. The presence of gunsmoke is undeniable now, burning his nose and stinging his eyes; it’s a smell he’ll never become accustomed to. But there’s something else he can hear now too, a shuffling and creaking of floorboards accompanied by an almost frenzied clicking.

But not that of claws underfoot. This sounds much more artificial somehow; a sound that Credo is certain he’s heard before, but can’t quite place. Clicking his tongue, he vaults through the window, but the second his boots hit the floor inside, the shuffling in the distance comes to an abrupt stop and silence overtakes the house once more. Something inside is very much alive, and very much aware of his presence now. The wind howls outside, choosing this moment to rattle old windows and unsettle a long undisturbed home.

Well, maybe not that long undisturbed; there are lit candles everywhere, some burned right to the base and fizzled out, leaving hardened splotches of wax on the floor. Whoever has been living here has definitely been doing so for some time… but perhaps no longer. Just like the gunpowder, the smell of blood is stronger inside too.

He makes no effort to mask the sounds of his investigation, confident in his ability to defend himself, and wanders the sparsely furnished home at a rather leisurely pace, all things considered. If whatever awaits him further inside wishes to beat a hasty retreat, it will have to go through Credo to reach the only viable exit, and though he has long since given up his title of Supreme General, there is no letting go of muscle memory and honed skill. Not once did he carry his Durandal for show.

He hears movement come from a room beyond the derelict kitchen, sees a shadow skitter past the door that sits ajar, but he takes his time in moving towards it, fingers clasped over the handle of his most trusted companion. Credo can see blood of a deep crimson pool over the floorboards through the gap in the door, already beginning to thicken and clot, and though the loss of life anywhere is a sad affair, he is no stranger to death at the hands of the otherworldly. He reaches his free hand forward, nudging the door open, but the second his body breaches the doorway, a circle of steel presses into the underside of his chin.

The muzzle of a pistol, warm and very much recently fired.

Credo goes still, arm still poised, holding the door open. His eyes travel from the unmoving corpse of the Assault on the floor, riddled with bullet holes to his now captor, unamused and unafraid. If he wanted to, he’s certain he could slice the hand holding the gun clean off before they got another shot in. But as it turns out, that isn’t necessary.

“Ohshitzorry–” Credo hears the muffled voice of the woman hidden behind the door frame splutter as she yanks the gun away, immediately lowering it and tucking it back into the waist of her pants.

Credo notes, with a frown, that she didn’t even turn the safety on.

But with the threat now assessed, he relaxes his hold on his sword, shoulders going lax as he studies the woman in front of him. She has her teeth sunken into the flesh of an apple, holding it in place in her mouth to free up both of her hands which now move to pull her shirt back down over the handle of her gun (while still completely ignoring the safety). But that isn’t what draws Credo’s attention.

The most striking feature of this woman is also the most headache-inducing, and he can’t help but give a light roll of his eyes when he sees the camera hanging around her neck. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realises the rapid clicking he’d heard earlier was the snap of her camera as she shuffled too and fro, taking pictures of the corpse in the room.

How crass, even for a mainlander.

But it isn’t just _any_ mainlander that’s squatting in this abandoned cottage, living on the hard work of others. The creature that’s been stealing wares and fresh produce from Fortuna’s citizens is far from a demon, and yet is decidedly a much worse and persistent pest than anything that can squeeze through an old hellgate.

Credo scowls when she lifts the camera up in her hands, tilts it just so, and snaps a picture of his disapproval.

“Damned journalists.”


End file.
